


A Sweet and Lethal Fire

by ensorcel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 02:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14583297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/pseuds/ensorcel
Summary: "Because I took your pulse."(Sherlock did not take her pulse. He traced her tally.)(Sherlock did not take his pulse. He traced his tally.)





	A Sweet and Lethal Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bringmayflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringmayflowers/gifts).



> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to BBC One, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. Any characters recognized do not belong to me.
> 
> Will I ever stop writing Soulmate AUs? Probably not. 
> 
> Much thanks to my lovely beta and writing partner-in-crime, [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia), go and check out her works! 
> 
> Happy birthday to [bringmayflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringmayflowers/profile), and to many more.

_ “Because I took your pulse.”  _

(Sherlock did not take her pulse. He traced her tally.) 

His wrist is as blank and pale as the day he was born. (Mycroft is the same.) His father bears a black tally. His mother bears a scar, and the same black marking as his father. (Sherlock has never wanted a tally. He has never believed in soulmates.) 

And so it is a terrible surprise to him (though, looking back, it shouldn’t have been) when the small, red tally paints its way onto the inside of his left wrist. He watches, intrigued, a morbid intrigue—like watching his own fall of defeat—as the red slowly bleeds on his wrist, a cut of crimson. (John doesn’t notice. Why should he?) 

It is easy, to hide his tattoo. (So he thinks.) 

(He usually wears long sleeves anyways.) 

(He thinks.) 

(Yes.)

(He does.) 

First thing he does is wash it off. (Stupid, he knows.) It does not come off. (Expected. Obvious.) 

The red is as bright as blood, as fresh as the day he got it. (It won’t change. He knows.) 

(Because John, does not bear a red tally. He holds onto a black one. Dearly.)

(Sherlock notices.) 

Thankfully, John does not hold a scar. (Sherlock hopes.) 

The tally burns. Scratches. (Sherlock cannot take it off.) 

His heart races. 

Runs. 

Flees. (He cannot stop it.) 

* * *

The tattoo is more of a burden than anything else. (John is not a burden. Just the tattoo.)

John is still dating Lisa, and Sherlock never seems to be able to rid himself of the blazing blood streak on his wrist. (He wears watches now. Much more efficient. Tells time too.) 

(However, this is not the first time he’s had a tattoo. He’s painted one before.) 

For Irene Adler. (For tricks.) 

(Sometimes he thought he was actually falling.) 

He was wrong. Unusual. (But not for matters of the heart.) 

He seethes in jealousy as Mycroft prances around with his bare wrists, and cold heart. (Iceman.) 

(The tally burns.) 

(Shatters.) 

(But does not hurt. Not yet.) 

* * *

He seems to notice tattoos more. (Before, they were just another item on the list. Another checkmark.)

Lestrade has two. One red, one black. (He wonders if the red is new.) 

Sally has four. Two red, two black. 

But he notices John’s tattoo the most. 

(His eyes scan hungrily over his wrist.) 

He has a single, burning, black tally. Sherlock never asks. John never explains. (He assumes it is old. Must be.) 

But it is not yet a scar. 

Until. 

Wait. 

Stop. 

(Quiet!) 

Sherlock’s scar is bright red. John’s dark black. 

They are in the kitchen when it happens. (When it turns.) 

Sherlock watches with a cold dread in his stomach and shaking hands, as the small, delicate, little black tally on the inside of John’s left wrist slowly burns into a scar. It is jagged, rough, very so unlike the smooth, black tally it replaced. John notices. (How could he not?) He gives a forced smile. 

Sherlock waits for him to speak. (Fiddling hands. Tapping the table. Obvious. Simple. John.) 

(Sherlock waits awhile.) 

His hands shake. (The table might shake.) 

“It’s old,” John begins. (Sherlock does not interrupt.) “Old, from—” 

He pauses. Sherlock waits. 

“High school, I believe,” John says. He does not meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Yeah. High school. Anyways—” 

John pauses again. Sherlock tilts his head towards him. 

“Go on,” he gently prompts. 

“It’s trivial. Old crush,” John whispers. 

(John leaves the room.)

(Sherlock does not go after him.)  

* * *

The next day, John is wearing a wristband. (Strange.)

(Different.) 

Sherlock wonders if he can catch him without it. 

But the colour of his tally has not changed, and the beaming red remains. (Constant.) 

(Will always be.) 

His heart races.

* * *

He wonders what John’s pulse is like. (If it’s fast, strong, weak, slow.)

He wonders if the second tally on John’s wrist is red or black. 

(Parts of him beg that it’s red. Others beg that it’s black.) 

Sherlock’s not entirely sure. 

(That’s a first.) 

* * *

Sherlock is very good at hiding his tattoo. But, unlike deducting and solving crimes, he is never the only one, and he is never the best.

Lestrade is the first to notice. (And the last, Sherlock will make sure of it.) 

He doesn’t point it out in public, rather pulled him—shoved him—into a dark alley on the streets of busy mid-day London. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock hisses. He glares. Lestrade glares back. He smiles. 

“Well, well, well,” he mocks. (And Sherlock knows.) He is cold. (He knows.) “How the mighty fall,” he whispers. His smile grows wider. 

Beaming. 

“Proud of you mate!” Lestrade exclaims, slapping Sherlock on the back. He is shocked. (To say the least.) 

It’s the next line that makes his blood run cold. 

“Is it John Watson?” 

(Sherlock does not reply.)

So he does what he does best.

He flees. (Heart, hammering in his chest.) 

* * *

The tattoo is still startlingly red. Brightly red. (Burns.)

Though not perhaps as much as his heart does. 

(Never has he wanted to slap Mycroft more, and take his blank wrist and replace it with his spoiled, tattooed one.) 

John’s smile is bright. (He is still wearing the horrid wristband.) 

Sherlock wishes he would wear a watch, at least. 

The cold dread reaches his stomach again. 

“Going out,” John calls. The smile grows. (Sherlock wants to slap himself.) The door slams on the way out. Mrs. Hudson gives a small yelp. 

Sherlock sighs. (He places his head in his hands.)

* * *

The tally never seems to change colour. (Until it does.)

(Wait.)

(Stop.)

(Stop!)

(Shut up.) 

Changes colour. 

The red slowly burns, from its crimson to a night-sky black, smooth as it was from the first day. Sherlock gasps. 

(He still hides his wrist.) 

But John does not hide his. 

* * *

“How did you know?” John whispers. Sherlock smiles.

“Because I took your pulse,” he replies, taking John’s wrist, gently leaning in, and kissing him softly on the lips. 

(But Sherlock did not take his pulse. He traced his tally.) 

**FIN.**

 

> _ “A sweet and lethal fire consumes my soul, and you—ah, you alone—can ease my suffering.”  _ —Henrik Ibsen, from The Complete Works and Selected Writings of  _ “Catiline”.  _

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken another dive into the Sherlock fandom with this little oneshot for [bringmayflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringmayflowers/profile)'s birthday. Let me know that you think, and until next time!


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